


With No Mirror To See

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-22
Updated: 2004-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:03:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1632947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The boy is out of balance."<br/>Kawamura Takashi has a paradigm shift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With No Mirror To See

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Dim Genesis

 

 

"Another massage today, Kawamura-kun?" Hitomi smiled and took his jacket. "We've been following Seigaku's progress very closely. You must be proud to be on such a strong team."

"Thank you, I am." Takashi blushed and ran a hand through his hair. The rain had forced an early end to the day's training, and he shivered as a few drops trickled down his neck and mixed with drying sweat. His forearm throbbed, and he rubbed it absently.

"We're not used to seeing you during the week. I hope nothing's wrong? Is your arm paining you? Doctor Minoura has a free hour, I think. You've never tried our acupuncture services before, have you? There's nothing like the combination of deep tissue work and energy realignment to soothe sore muscles. Let me see if he can fit you in this evening."

"That's very kind of you, but it's only a slight strain. Please don't go to any trouble."

"Nonsense, it's no trouble at all. You haven't seen Minoura-sensei before, have you? Well, Tsubari-sensei says he can work wonders, and you know how stingy he can be with compliments." Hitomi laughed and pointed Takashi to the waiting area.

"Please take a seat. I'm sure we can work something out. After all, you're Seigaku's power player! It's our responsibility to make sure you're in top shape for the Nationals."

Hitomi ducked out the side door to the offices, and Takashi sighed. His father always told him that he was too easygoing, usually with a friendly whap upside the head. 'You've got to stand firm, Taka,' he would say, 'or people will think you're as limp as bad seaweed.'

That's usually when his mother would poke her head into the room and frown at his father. Takashi could almost hear her: 'Let the boy be, Yumi. Just because he only shouts in tennis doesn't mean he's weak. A fine, loving heart, our Takashi has. Best that he follow it and not make trouble where there needn't be.'

Then she would glance over at him and place a hand over her heart, tapping once or twice. Takashi would bow in response, and his father would shake his head and grumble as he lifted another crate of fish.

***

Kawamura Saki wasn't an especially superstitious person, but she took her religion very seriously, and Takashi's father often complained that she worried more about courtesy than any woman should. Some of Takashi's first memories were of hearing her low, sweet-voiced prayers in the small temple behind the restaurant, the smell of incense, and feeling the roughly woven mat poking at his legs.

Not many of the mothers in his neighborhood visited Kyuushi Omoura, the local wise woman, for anything other than medicinal herbs, or maybe a bit of advice about their husbands' straying eyes.

Even fewer seemed to remember the tradition of bringing their children and having their fortunes told - early enough that destiny was still shapeable, but late enough that the child's chi was palpably unique. But Saki had taken her son to see the healer two days after his tenth birthday, and his sister three years later on hers.

Takashi had been terrified, and had clutched so strongly at his mother's hand that she had to pry him loose when Omoura-sensei emerged from behind a dusty brown screen and reached for him. Her hands had smelled of lemongrass and sulfur; knotty and liver-spotted, she'd traced fingers across his brows and back behind his ears.

"Hm, a timid one." She'd laughed until her voice broke into dry coughs, and he'd jerked away and hidden behind his mother's skirt. "Hush, young man. It's only a quick checkup. Don't you want your fortune told? Perhaps you're destined to be a movie star, or to cure terrible diseases."

He remembered peeking out and seeing her bent low, staring right at him. Her eyes were nearly buried in wrinkles, and she'd smiled almost kindly.

"Kawamura Takashi, come out from there and stop embarrassing me," his mother had whispered under her breath. Takashi had swallowed once and tucked his hands behind his back, then moved slowly out in front of his mother.

Omoura-sensei had immediately reached forward and tugged his wrists until he relaxed, and allowed them to be held up to the light.

"Hm, hm, interesting. I sense a great deal of strength here." She stroked her thumbs over the veins running up his forearms. "Yes, boy, there's more fire in you than one would guess. Here," and she touched lightly above his bellybutton, "and here also." Another touch right below his ribcage, and Takashi saw his mother nod from the corner of his eye.

"He's a very passionate boy, our Taka-chan. Why, it seems as though every week he discovers a new hobby or sport. First it was football, then baseball, then magic tricks, for the gods only know what reason."

"Easily distracted, is he? Interesting." Omoura-sensei clucked her tongue and stretched Takashi's arms out to his sides. "Breathe, now. Deeply. And close your eyes."

Takashi half-heard his mother and Omoura-sensei murmuring as he squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled until his lungs were bursting, exhaled with a whoosh, then started over again. The woman's hands were warm, almost uncomfortably so, as she passed them back and forth above his chest, barely touching the cloth of his shirt.

"Not easily distracted, really, I would say..." "Oh? Karate now, is it? That will be good for his energy, keep it balanced..." "Well, it was his father's idea, but now our Taka-chan thinks of nothing but his forms, day and night..."

Omoura-sensei had sighed then, making a sound not unlike Takashi's own strenuous exhalation. "Well, there it is. I was wondering what the trouble was."

"Trouble?" His mother's voice had gotten very quiet. "What trouble? He isn't..."

***

"Kawamura Takashi?"

Takashi jumped. An older man in an open lab coat was bowing to him. His wavy white hair bobbed in front of Takashi's face, and the man straightened quickly. Takashi felt himself growing red, and immediately stood and made his own bow.

"Please excuse me, I was not paying attention."

"No, excuse me. I obviously startled you. I'm Doctor Minoura, and if you'd like to come into my office, we can discuss why you are here."

"Thank you, Doctor. I apologize for my appearance; I just came from tennis practice."

Takashi followed the doctor into the examination room, pausing briefly to stare at the prints on the walls. Black birds, their wings bent like liquid W's, soared into evening sunset in one, and another showed them skimming along the water below. They were strangely calming.

"Oh, yes, Hitomi mentioned that you were on the Seishun Gakuen team." Minoura-sensei pulled out a pen and made a few notes on what had to be Takashi's chart. "Wonderful playing from you boys this year. I'm very excited to see how you do at the Nationals."

"Thank you for the compliment. I'm very honored to be playing on the team." Takashi perched himself on the examination table and folded his hands.

"And that's why you're here, yes? Is the extensive practice putting strain on your arm?" Minoura-sensei reached out for his hand and carefully rotated his arm, first at the wrist, then at the shoulder, pausing only to scribble more notes.

"Well, yes, but I think a few days' rest and the usual massage will help with that; it usually does." Takashi rubbed a hand over his neck.

"But that doesn't explain why you wanted a session with me today." The doctor pulled a pair of thin square spectacles out of his coat pocket, put them on, and blinked a few times. "That's better. Now, you tell me what the problem is, and then I'll get some basic information. Diet, energy level, stresses. Those type of things."

Takashi shook his head. "Well, I'm not sure. You see, I'm a power player. I've developed techniques to channel that power in my game, and there is always the danger of straining my muscles. I always stretch and properly warm up, of course. I just..."

"Don't worry, Kawamura-san. Many people come to me for things they can't quite explain. Feeling out of balance, tired, exhausted, having confusing emotional experiences. Why don't I ask you some questions, just to get an idea of what areas to target, and then we can talk more afterward. Does that sound good?"

Takashi nodded gratefully.

"How long have you been feeling troubled, physically?"

***

His father had laughed when Takashi and his mother had arrived home, out of breath and full of news.

"That crazy woman tells you our son is in trouble? And how many pills and magic potions did she sell you along with that advice? You are too trusting, Saki. There is nothing wrong with our son that some hard work and good competition won't fix. Right, Taka?"

Takashi had nodded, but all he could think about was Omoura-sensei's hand pressing down on his chest, and the look in her eyes when she'd given her assessment.

"The boy is out of balance. He's blocked, here." She'd thumped him once, right below his collarbone, almost knocking the wind out of Takashi. "His energy will be diverted, and his chi will bring sorrow, not happiness, if he does not break through this. It is like a stone in the middle of a river, making the banks overflow. But the hands...hm."

Omoura-sensei paused and took Takashi's hands in hers once again. "The hands are his gift. Encourage him to open. Make him use them. That would help." Then she'd patted him on the shoulder and held out her hand. His mother had bowed, murmured her thanks, and paid the woman. She didn't say a word until they got home, and then she merely gestured toward the kitchen and said, "Sit."

His mother's face was strained, and her hands shook as she poured the tea. Takashi's father had gone to the market earlier to examine the fresh catch, and Maeka was practicing the piano in the next room. Strains of 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star' repeated in the background. Suddenly she moved around the table, and Takashi raised his eyebrows in shock to see her abandoning formality.

She leaned close to him and touched his hand gently. "Takashi? I know your father thinks I'm a silly, superstitious woman, but you must listen to me very carefully. Are you listening?"

Takashi nodded. He didn't like being afraid of his mother, who was always so predictable. He wondered what it was about him that was so disturbing. Could everyone see the mysterious stone on his chest? It was suddenly hard to catch his breath.

"You need to remember what Omoura-sensei said, and try your best to be kind."

Takashi shook his head. "I don't understand."

"Taka-chan, my dear...she was speaking about your heart. Did you not see where she touched? Here." His mother cupped her palm over Takashi's heart, and he felt its beating through her fingers. "In this life, it is your duty to live with a loving heart. Do not cause problems, or make things hard for others. You must be respectful at all times. Now do you understand?"

"Yes, mother, I understand." Takashi blinked quickly and stared down at his tea. He could see tiny pieces of leaves floating on the surface. Usually, he tried to drink around them or skim them out by now.

"Do you promise me that you will do this?" Saki released her son and faced him directly.

"I promise."

"Good. Now, let's finish our tea before your father returns and starts complaining about his dinner being late." His mother smiled like she was sharing a secret with Takashi, a secret about his silly father who didn't understand more important things than his dinner. Takashi smiled back, but it felt strange.

***

"And stick out your tongue for me. Not quite that far, yes. Hmm." The doctor made a few more notes, and gestured that Takashi could put it back in his mouth. He threaded his fingers together and waited while the doctor hmmed some more, then startled again at the Minoura-sensei's voice.

"Well, Kawamura-san, it sounds as though you have many pressures to deal with." Minoura-sensei steepled his hands and tapped his fingers on his lips.

"Oh, yes? I'm not sure I understand." Takashi noticed that he was swinging his legs, and winced at the thudding they made on the side of the table. He stopped them quickly.

"You said that your father recently suffered a broken arm, which forced you to stop playing tennis in order to help out at your family's restaurant. It seems that your team is very dedicated and competitive, and I can assume that there was some pressure from the team for you to come back. Also, the National competition itself is a very stressful situation, not to mention the additional work you have been doing to prepare. On top of that, you have explained to me that you intend to give up tennis after this year, and concentrate on becoming a sushi chef - to take over the family business, correct?"

"Ah, yes. I didn't realize that I had spoken so much." Takashi ducked his head. Had he really listed these events as complaints? Minoura-sensei's words made his life seem overwhelming, when it really wasn't.

"Oh, now, that's nothing to be embarrassed about. I'm very good at asking questions. But you are currently working very hard to fulfill your duties to your family and to your team, isn't that so?" Minoura-sensei smiled and shifted his stool a bit closer.

"I try my best."

"That is what I had guessed. And you are feeling some strain in your right arm, your playing arm, as well as in the opposing side of your neck. Probably compensation for the additional muscular demands."

"Oh?" Takashi leaned forward.

Minoura-sensei nodded. "Yes. You prepare sushi with your right hand as well, and I am surprised that your trainer has not taken the additional demand into consideration when developing your schedule."

Takashi hurried to respond. "Oh, that would be my fault, not Inui-sempai's or Tezuka-sempai's. I did not realize that I was overusing my arm."

"Don't look so worried, young man. I don't think there is a serious problem with your arm; if there were, you would have realized it before now. This throbbing sensation you describe - it is only occasional? There is no tingling in the fingertips, no shooting pains up or down the arm?"

"No, no. None of that." Just to be sure, Takashi stretched out his right arm and wiggled his fingers. Nothing.

"That's very good news. I think we'll try a few points in the thighs and calves, maybe two here," and he touched Takashi's ankle where it was barely covered with his sweatsock.

"Also, just to clear up any tension along the spine and neck, perhaps one or two there and along the arm. We'll start with ten, since it's your first session. I'll just step out and give you a moment to remove your shirt and shoes, then we'll begin. All right, Kawamura-san?"

"Yes, thank you." Takashi felt dizzy all of a sudden. "Um, should I lie down, or do anything else?"

"Just try to relax. I'm sure you know that the needles only usually cause small discomfort. But you can lie down until I return. Try to concentrate on your breathing, making sure it's deep and even." Minoura-sensei smiled again as he took the chart, dimmed the lights, and stepped out the door.

Takashi just stood there for a moment, tugging at the bottom of his jersey, then he shook himself and started undressing. There was a long massage table in the corner of the room, covered with a thin paper film, and it crackled as he shifted on the firm surface.

He knew that such things were designed to be comfortable, but he couldn't seem to relax on his stomach. He inched his shoulders down until his fingers grazed the bottoms of his shorts, and shivered at the sensation. He pressed his forehead into the circular headrest and tried to breathe, to think of nothing. It was difficult. First his nose would itch, and then he would think that perhaps he would be more comfortable if he shifted a little to the left, or tilted his head up, and then he would wonder whether his posture was good, or if he should be counting or meditating or something else entirely.

It felt as though he'd been waiting for an hour - mind circling around images of his mother, the school tennis court, the team's sullen faces when Tezuka had cancelled practice - when Minoura-sensei finally returned.

"Are you comfortable?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Is the room warm enough? Many patients experience chills when their energies shift and the endorphins begin to flow. If you are chilly now, I'll cover you with one of our special blankets. They're very light, but the astronauts use the same kind for warmth. So you see we have cutting edge technology for our patients!" He chuckled, the sound making Takashi smile despite his discomfort.

"I am a little cold."

He heard the doctor opening drawers and muttering to himself. "Perhaps I'll start with Ren 1 Huiyin, work up from the kidney, and then concentrate on the solar plexus chakra..." Minoura-sensei seemed to come to a decision, then, because his feet moved close enough that Takashi could see them.

"If you're ready, Kawamura-san, we will begin."

Takashi nodded again. He couldn't see anything but the muddy gray carpet directly in front of him, and his back felt very exposed and vulnerable. One quick breath, and he forced his fingers to relax.

"Very good. I'll have you take deep breaths and place the needle on the exhale, so that you are prepared. Let me know if you feel a strong response as I adjust the angles, or if you feel any pain."

There was a light brush over the back of his right calf, then two fingers pressed along the outside of the muscle. "We'll begin here. Deep breath, with me. In," and Takashi expanded his lungs along with the doctor, "and out." The needle stung slightly, and Takashi flinched for a second, but the pain was already gone.

"Good. Now the other side." There was a small clinking sound, and Takashi assumed Minoura-sensei was getting the next needle. "Once again, breathe in," and this one was deeper, as though the doctor was sticking a finger directly into his muscle.

"Breathe out, Takashi. There you go. How does that feel?"

"Oh, it - it feels deep. Hurts." He relaxed his jaw and exhaled.

"All right, let me adjust the placement a bit. Breathe in." The pain receeded, then changed, like the needle is pressing onto a vein. A faint ache spread up his left leg to the base of his spine.

"Is that better?"

"Yes. It feels - strange."

Minoura-sensei chuckled again. "It always does at first. Just remember to let me know if you feel any discomfort, or if the sensations become too much."

Takashi agreed, and wondered that he felt so aware of his legs. They felt almost restrained, and he knew he wouldn't be able to move until the needles were removed. He thought of butterflies in a collection box, and the back of his neck throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

The next few needles went in smoothly: one below each anklebone, three stretching down his right arm from the tip of his shoulder to right above the wrist.

Minoura-sensei pressed two sticky dots into his ears, first holding them under Takashi's head so he can see what they look like. They reminded him of homing devices in old spy movies, innocuous-looking clear plastic circles with a smaller piece of metal in the middle, and the doctor explained that they will improve circulation.

"Just leave them on for a day or two and determine whether they help, all right?"

It was odd to have things stuck into his ears, but Takashi forgot the tingles running along his veins, even the ache in his shoulder and calf, when the next needle entered the skin at the base of his neck.

"Oh, ow. Mmm. Oh, that's deep."

"Really? I've used my shortest needle. Interesting. Is the pain only where I've placed the needle, or do you feel a corresponding pain elsewhere?"

"It feels like pressure," Takashi panted, "on my lungs, and, in the middle of my back." The needle disappeared, and a hand soothed the spot.

"I was planning to try a point or two nearer to the top of your spine. But your reaction suggests that maybe here, corresponding to the liver, Ren 8 Shenjue, and Ren 12 Zhongwan point, would be better. Breathe in."

None of the other needles had felt this cold. Takashi wiggled the fingers on his left hand, trying to stay connected to his body. Everything was frozen and far away, from his toes to his ears, except for the ache scratching under his ribs.

"This is the last one, Du 11 Shendao. Deep breath."

There was the same soft sting, then a wiggle or maybe it was a twist, Takashi thought hazily, and the needle would spin at the last moment and smack him in the face like Ryoma's Twist Serve. But that's not how it felt at all. It hurt in a deep, strange way when the doctor changed the angle, but Takashi didn't make a sound, and it slowly receeded when the doctor patted his arm and fetched the blanket.

He was immediately warmer with the soft, crinkled fabric stretching from shoulder to toes, but he couldn't really pay attention to Minoura-sensei's words.

"Kawamura-san? Will fifteen minutes be all right? I don't encourage new patients to have the needles in for much longer than that."

"Oh. Sorry. Yes, Minoura-sensei. Fifteen minutes is fine."

"Then I'll take my leave. Would you like the lights lower? Perhaps some music?" Takashi nodded, but a twinge up his spine stopped the movement quickly.

"Very well. Just one last thing. Do not be alarmed or concerned if you should feel strong emotions, or if memories arise for you during this time. That is completely natural. We are composed of both matter and energy, and my patients are often surprised to discover that certain places on their bodies...provoke unusual responses."

"Like what?" Takashi wondered when his hands and feet grew so cold.

"Well, that depends on the person." Minoura-sensei stopped, as though he was thinking. "You seem to retain tension in the middle of your back, and along your shoulders. Remember how strongly the needle there affected you? It's a mysterious process, difficult to explain, how energy affects the body."

"Could it hurt my arm? Or cause any - any damage?"

He could almost hear Minoura-sensei's smile. "Oh, no, Kawamura-san. The needles will not make you into a different person, or stop you from playing tennis. But I'm sure you've heard the idea that we retain emotions, stresses and past pains, in our bodies?"

"My mother blames karma whenever she stubs her toe. She does that a lot."

"Well, it's not entirely the same thing. But acupuncture is meant to change the circulation of energy in your body, to loosen blockages and achieve balance. As that happens, patients are often surprised by the feelings which arise, or the thoughts they have. You should pay attention to your body as you lie here. Try to remain open, to understand the aches and twinges, the connections you feel. The body often retains emotions in the strangest places, and our work often encourages a form of release."

Then the door closed, and Takashi was alone.

***

Takashi closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to follow the doctor's advice. 'Be aware of your body,' he told himself. 'Let the memories come.'

His neck is heavy like a rock, something solid and soldered to the base of his spine. For a few moments, all he could think of was the sensation, heavy and hollow. Then his fingers tingled, and it was as though someone was blowing cool air over Takashi's whole body. His heartbeat thumped in the pit of his stomach, and in his cheek where it touched the headrest.

Takashi remembered a great chef saying, 'When you make sushi, it must come from your passion, your love for it. This sushi has no emotion, so it is no good.' His shoulder stung and throbbed.

Takashi remembered Tezuka, arms folded against the spring chill, giving his first speech as captain. 'Everyone must give their all for the team,' and he'd glared at Momo and Kaidoh as though he knew they weren't taking things seriously enough. 'We must all commit our will to winning. We cannot be careless.'

Even though he knew the needles would bite, Takashi couldn't help but squeeze his right hand into a fist. The ache doesn't stop, like threads of fire around his wrist, elbow, everywhere.

Takashi remembered thinking, when he first picked up a racket, that this was it. This was what he truly wanted to do.

The grip was warm and stuck to his fingers, another freshman's practice racket on loan. Takashi wasn't sure anymore how he'd decided to try out, what had made him step onto the court with all of the other skinny boys with too-long shorts, but he knew how it felt when that old metal racket was in his hand.

He hadn't told his parents right away.

Maybe he was being superstitious, but he didn't want them to know what he was doing until he'd discovered whether the feeling would come again. And who knew if he would be any good? He _felt_ good, but maybe all of the other freshmen could hit the ball across two courts on their first try.

His friend Yubaru had laughed himself sick on the train with his impression of Takashi. Apparently he shouted when he played, which Takashi couldn't really imagine. He never shouted. And in English, no less, when everyone including him knew his accent was awful?

Takashi tried to remember exactly what he'd done, how he'd moved, but the thoughts slipped away in the face of that joyful, free movement like fencing and dancing and running, all combined in one game.

And so he'd played. His parents had been surprised when he hadn't given up tennis after six months or a year. His father, especially, had been proud when he'd made the regulars. His mother didn't like going to his games; she said they were too loud and that the other teams were always unspeakably rude. She would stare across at him during dinner sometimes, and reach out a hand to brush back his hair, as though she were checking to make sure he was still there.

You hold a racket like you're holding a bird. Takashi remembers the saying in his beginner's book. The perfect grip is tight enough that the bird will not escape, but loose enough that it doesn't suffocate.

Takashi always held on a little too tightly. His handles needed more grip tape than the other players, and he spent a great deal of his allowance on replacing it when it wore thin or started to peel.

The forehand stroke was his favorite for a long time. Takashi imagined he could feel the stretch in his right arm, the long slow extension that would bring the ball to the sweet spot. He loved the perfect 'thwock' the ball made when he got it right, and the jarring vibrations from ball to racket to arm, until his head got a little dizzy from overpracticing.

He didn't think too often about what happened when he picked up a racket. Happened to him, that is, because what was important was that he played, that he did his best, that his team knew this was something he could _do_.

It's just...it's just right, that's all, more natural than his father molding his suddenly-clumsy fingers around a slippery chunk of ebi, when those same fingers had perfected the two-handed Hadoukyuu earlier in the day.

His mother had to make four family-size orders of rice before he understood how to shape it without squeezing too hard or getting stuck to the grains.

Takashi remembered throwing everything tennis-related into a box after his father had broken his arm, certain that it was time for his adult life to begin. For as long as he could remember, he'd known that the business was going to be his someday, when tennis and school were done. And on that day, Takashi was ready. He'd taken the box out to the trash and tossed it in. But he hadn't been able to stop himself from thinking - and it frightened him how dark the emotion was - that it wasn't as though the team _needed_ him.

No matter what Tezuka said.

Inui had taken his data once, before and after he picked up a racket. His vital signs spike when he's, well, in 'burning mode.' It always sounds ridiculous when he's not playing.

But when he is...it's not like being drunk, or really tired. It's something else entirely. Takashi can feel himself storming the court, full of aggression and bravado and English phrases that are suddenly natural, like some kind of righteous god.

But every time he puts down his racket, Takashi blushes and stammers and stares at his hands because he doesn't recognize them.

His hands are always cold; even Inui had noticed that during his data collection. When Takashi would scratch his neck while preparing seaweed or rice, it's as though there's no blood in his fingers.

Takashi's whole body felt cold now, and he wondered how long he's been lying in darkness. The blanket's not nearly thick enough, and his muscles flexed with the desire to move, maybe get up and run away, despite knowing that any slight shift would twist the needles.

No one could mistake Kawamura Yuri for anything but a chef, if they looked at his hands.

Sometimes Takashi pretended he was taking instruction and just watched them move, scarred over with nicks, fingertips deadened from oil burns. His father has calluses between his thumb and first finger from holding a knife every day, while he just has them from swinging a racket.

His hands grow warm when he plays tennis. Inui told him that his body temperature goes up 1.7 degrees, that his pupils dilate and his breathing is slower, deeper.

That's certainly not the case now. Takashi noticed with part of his mind that he was shaking, and that his breathing has gone ragged and fast.

People in his life, Takashi thought angrily, people think that he stays with tennis because the team needs him. Because they're winning, and he's made a commitment, and because there's no point to getting another hobby when he's going to become a sushi chef anyway.

They're wrong.

Just thinking it made him feel lighter somehow. He still felt cold, still shivering, but something was changing in his body. He sensed a lump in his throat and his arm was on fire, and the thoughts just kept coming. Takashi didn't know if he can stop them.

How did he not know that he was angry? How could he not see that he enviecd Fuji and Tezuka and Ryoma and everyone on the team who knows without a doubt that _this_ is what they were born to do?

He remembered waving a flag, chanting the school's name as though by will alone he could make a difference. He remembered the frustration of watching every player lose to Ryoma, and doing the math that always comes out with him sitting on the sidelines as a substitute at the Nationals.

Takashi has always known that he was not like the others on the team, or even like the strangest of their opponents.

Tezuka, Kaidoh, Ryoma, they all watch each other with hungry, nervous eyes. Long after he spends his days picking out fish and setting tables, they'll still be playing like it was life.

He supposed that it probably was, to them. Takashi just liked customers, washing dishes, getting tips and greeting regulars. He loved his family's business, even if he still forgets the ginger when he prepares an order. Even if he sometimes catches his mother murmuring his name over and over in her prayers, interspersed with words like duty and first-born and tradition.

Takashi ignored the wetness on the headrest and the choked sounds he was trying so hard not to make.

He thought his chest might be cracking open, and his thighs won't stop clenching and unclenching. He wanted to stop thinking this way. It won't do any good. He will play tennis, he will become a chef. That's what he's always wanted, that's what everyone wants of him. And - Takashi's throat closed until he could barely breathe - it doesn't matter if he won't be the best sushi chef in Japan. It doesn't matter if he won't become a tennis pro because all he has is power.

He will learn how to sharpen the knives like he's going through a karate form. He will wave a flag on the sidelines and get the whole crowd to chant Seigaku's name.

He will stand up for Maeka at her wedding and take his father for long walks around the neighborhood on Sunday evenings. He will watch Oishii and Kikumaru on the television while he gets his monthly haircut.

And sometimes, if a few of them stay in Tokyo or are playing a match, they'll all come to his restaurant and order all-you-can-eat.

***

Takashi took a deep breath and shook his head. His toes were warm, and there was no more pressure bearing down on his neck.

The room was quiet and strangely calming. Takashi sniffed a few times and wiggled his fingers to check the ache, but it was gone. His spine felt longer, like he'd been stretched out and realigned. Suddenly his body'd forgotten the two punishing games he'd played that afternoon and the forty laps that morning, because all Takashi could think about was walking home instead of taking the train.

He was just wondering if Minoura-sensei had forgotten about him when he heard the door open.

"Kawamura-san? How are you feeling?"

"Better, I think. Thank you, Minoura-sensei. Please forgive my appearance."

Minoura-sensei laughed and Takashi heard a drawer rattle. "A few tears are not the worst thing I've seen in this office, that I can promise you. Now, I'm going to brighten the lights slowly. Are you ready?"

"Ready."

Takashi took a deep breath when the doctor removed the blanket and rubbed his feet gently.

"Good, good, not too chilled. Your energy's improved, also. I can tell from here."

"Oh, that's good. I do feel, well, I do feel different."

"Now if you can just be patient through the removal process, I'll send you home very soon. Your dinner must be waiting."

"Actually, doctor, I think I'm making dinner tonight." Takashi blinked at the easy tug-slide the needles made as they came out. Each one made a small 'ting' as Minoura-sensei placed it in a tray.

"Oh, you're a modern boy. It's good to give mothers a break sometimes. Now, I'm going to just put a bit of ointment on the few places where you're bleeding, then we'll see how your muscles feel. All right?"

"All ri - ow! Minoura-sensei, that stings!"

"I did warn you. Your legs look fine, good dexterity, and much less tension than before. Yes, and the back's loosened up as well." The doctor's hands were warm and wet with oil, and Takashi couldn't quite muffle a groan at the strong massage down his spine.

Now the hands flexed and relaxed his arm, checking the rotation again. Takashi could tell that there were fewer knots, and the ache had disappeared completely. He felt strangely grounded, like he did after an afternoon of mediation with his mother.

"Hmm. Yes, everything looks fine, but it's evident that this session was draining for you, Kawamura-san. I advise postponing the massage for today."

"Really? I do feel a lot better, but usually I need, well..." Takashi rubbed his face as the doctor urged him into a sitting position.

"It seems we've released some of your tension, young man, and I don't think you should overdo it. Go home and see how you feel. Perhaps you should give Tsubari-sensei a call tomorrow if your muscles are giving you pain." Minoura-sensei patted him on the back, and Takashi tugged on his shirt and socks.

"I'm sure that's best, doctor. Thank you very much for making the time to see me today." He made sure his shoes were tied, and stood up to give a quick bow. "Sorry for the trouble."

"Really, your parents have raised a remarkably courteous boy. Give them my compliments, and please make an appointment with Hitomi for next week - if you decide to come back, of course."

"I will do that, Minoura-sensei. Goodbye."

"Goodbye. Oh, and good luck at the Nationals!" Takashi smiled and waved back at the doctor as he made his way to the receptionist's desk.

***

On the way home, Takashi thought about seaweed. His father had taken him to the market over the weekend and pointed out the different varieties, how to tell if it was old or new.

The best kinds, his father had said, were stiffer than you'd expect, since the damp of the rice quickly makes them soggy. But if the seaweed was too stiff, you could tell it had been dried, and that was the worst kind - dry seaweed was brittle, and would snap under the pressure of shaping it with the rice.

Knifework is like that too, Takashi realized. Too much power behind the blade, and you'd make a mistake, dull your blade. Too little, and the decorative cuts wouldn't work, because there would be no control. He couldn't hold the knife like it was a racket.

Takashi looked at his hands in the hazy light of his street. They've always seemed too large, like clubs or swords. When he was twelve, he'd spent four months apologizing for knocking things over in the house. He just could never seem to tell where his body left off and other things began.

And when he'd started playing tennis, things had only gotten worse. Takashi would forget to put his racket down, or pick it up to show his sister a new move, and something would break.

Maeka almost knocked him down when he stepped inside the restaurant.

"Taka-chan, I'm hungry! Are you going to cook now? Father said you were cooking tonight. Will you make me sashimi? My favorite? Pleeeeease?" He sat her on the counter and she pouted at him.

"All right, Mae-chan. I'll make your sashimi just how you like it." Takashi crouched to put on his sandals. "But you have to go bother Father and let me work, understand? Tell him and Mother that it will be an hour or so."

"So long?" Maeka jumped down and tugged him into the kitchen. "Hurry, Taka-chan! Start right now!"

Takashi laughed and turned to the knife rack. "I am, I promise. Go on, now. I have to concentrate."

"Okay! But make the sashimi first!" Maeka called as she ran up the stairs. "Father, father, Taka-san is home! And he's making sashimi for me!"

First he washed his hands thoroughly, following the routine his father had taught him. Then Takashi put on his hapi and wiped down the cutting board. He gathered fresh rice from the cooker, the tuna and salmon fillets, and reached for a knife.

His hand paused before it could select his favorite slicing knife. Takashi closed his eyes and rested his hands on the scarred wooden chopping block. On a whim, he touched the back of his neck, and found that his fingers were warm, and his palm almost radiated heat.

Instead of focusing on the blade and the salmon like he usually would, Takashi breathed deeply and tried to open his senses until he was fully aware of the wooden sandals under his feet, the cool breeze from the open window, the sharp lights in the kitchen.

When he finally took the knife in his hand, it felt like water is moving through him, not fire. One hand arranged the ruddy pink fillet, the other sliced down in a controlled rocking motion. Soon he was rolling the squid with a delicate hand, and his fingers never slipped on the wet slices of daikon.

Takashi hummed tunelessly under his breath and enjoyed every second: the feel of the knife in his hands, so different from the ropelike grip on his racket. The rice almost rolled itself in his palms, and it was only half an hour later when he called upstairs to tell his family that dinner is ready.

It felt like balance.

His parents praised the sushi with every bite, and Maeka asked if he would make her lunch tomorrow. He tickled her into taking it back, and asked his father to start on the cleanup. He wants to get in some late practice. After all, the Nationals are only three weeks away.

 

 

 


End file.
